


Those Days of Fear

by EnglandsGray



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: Humanized, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 23:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19386307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglandsGray/pseuds/EnglandsGray
Summary: A little role reversal, just for a moment.





	Those Days of Fear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Get Hurt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17968844) by [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson). 



> Could take place at the end of the beautiful Get Hurt, by objectlesson. Inspired by and in tribute to their work, which opened my eyes and which I love. I couldn't resist writing about their boys and post the resulting piece as a Gift, and sincere compliment xx

“I want you to fuck me.”

 

The world stops. Time, space, your heart, the whole goddamn lot. His gaze sweeps up the skin on your chest which stills in anticipation, just as his hand does between your thighs. When those eyes lock onto yours you feel the shift. So tangible is the change that chills prickle over your skin like you’re caught in that first fall breeze which shocks as it douses the desert summer, chasing away the headiness of what has gone before. 

The balance of power has altered. Your boy bores deep into the space behind your widened eyes, silently taking the permission he wants from you and visibly psyching himself up in a heartbeat to overtake you.

_Take over._

You’ve been here before, and you have never. So you wait; you’re good at that. Anticipate the fire from the ghost scent of heat on his skin. You’ve lain yourself bare, stepped over the burnout away from safety and into unpredictable, dangerous territory. And what’s worse, you’ve asked him to do the same. Asked him to step up. You’ll burn for him, throw yourself in front of any oncoming elemental force if that would spare him. You’re good at that too; guiding, teaching, moulding and also compensating, spoon-feeding and protecting. For his own good, yes, but you don’t kid yourself it’s not also in the name of self preservation. While you’re in the driving seat it’s all on _you_ , and one thing you’re certain of is your ability to shoulder responsibility, blame, grief and carry it for a lifetime. 

You can just hear his breath, drawn through parted, glistening lips, over the rush of blood in your ears. You watch that mouth, mere inches above your heart, your very soul. You watch. You see the corner quirk, the slow smile begin there and end in your plummeting stomach. There’s a reason they call it million-dollar, you think, you’d pay that and more.  

The look on his face is familiar and brand new. His focus, his ownership of the game, cocky, sure. You see it in the pits, on the TV, hear it through the earpiece. 

But here, in bed, pressed up against the full length of your body, his hand encircling you, exposed in every way and at the start of his journey of exploration, you don’t expect this confidence. He’s no champ here, there are no prizes to his name save for your heart. Yet here it is, shining out of every pore, shimmering across his skin and drawing your touch like forbidden treasure. You lick your lips reflexively.

“Oh yeah?” He breathes.

His eyebrow lifts, eyelids heavy, voice low and hot, syrup smooth. He lets you go, traces his fingers up your ribcage, never flinching as they cross scar tissue, achingly gentle. But there’s a force there, readable only to you, a coded message in the way he shifts his knee, dragging the ditch at the meeting of his thigh and hip over yours which tells you all you need to know. 

He’s driving now. He’s going to teach you. Guide you, mould you - _change_ you. He’s taking his chance. He sees something in you that you don’t even see in yourself. He sees the possibility of a love that is equal, on level terms, no shadows, no one-sided power dynamic that lasts any longer than it takes for one of you to rocket to a shattering finish before it flips seamlessly to the other. He’s young, naive and hopeful. And he’s taking you with him.  

His touch runs down your arm and he links those sure fingers into yours.

“You’re gonna get what you want...” he says, grit in his voice chafing your gut and making you squirm like a beginner. Like a rookie. 

 “...when m’ready.”

Your breath forces out of you like you’ve been holding it this whole time. He raises your hand above your head and encircles the wrist, pressing down like he could keep it there if you tried to resist. Once, maybe only minutes ago, you’d have laughed at him internally, thrown him off easily to remind him who was chief, thrill him deep as he flattened down onto his back under your hand and back into his place. Now, you surrender to the possibility he could best you, could _beat_ you, overpower you. He is doing. You’re trembling under him, he’s heavier now than he was. Maybe that’s in your mind, you don’t care, you want it and you lose your senses to the newness of his bruising, raw kiss as he bears down on you.

“Gonna take what I need...”

He says it against your cheekbone, grabbing your other hand and insisting, forcing it between you and curling your pliant fingers around himself, almost ready again; the realisation that what he’s doing now destroys him as much as when you were in charge flipping your stomach so hard you feel nauseated, see stars.  

“Gonna fuck you so good, run you into the dirt.”

You gasp, moan, tip your head back on the pillow, exposing and making vulnerable your throat like he’s the predator and you’re the foolhardy prey. You lowered your guard tentatively when you ground out your last coherent sentence, now he’s blasting it to smithereens, powering into the centre, pinning down the boy with the broken heart under the bleachers and healing him, showing him a world he can take hold of with both hands and press to his chest for dear life.  

His free hand wanders over you, possessive and brave. You work your hand up and down him clumsily, rediscovering what it’s like to be in the awkward position, not to be the designer of the puzzle two bodies fit into together. His breath is heavy against your skin, you can tell under it all that he’s holding back from cursing or moaning as he licks up your flexing tricep, your taught forearm, your touch chasing him as he shifts upwards, his tongue tasting the meeting point of his hand and your wrist. You imagine the heat there might burn him as you indulge yourself by pressing your mouth to his beautiful skin. 

He pulls away, leaning to the side and scorching you with a look, scolding your daring. You relent, collapse back, out of reach of his chest, a low sound coming from the back of your throat. Christ, getting your hands on him was everything, but this? This is so unfamiliar you’re adrift, so hot you’re desperate for more, desperate to see the whole of this side of him. 

He throws his gaze down between your bodies and back to your eyes, a flash across the blue, and you realise you’ve frozen, so you take back up palming him, dizzy with it all. 

“That’s right, Hudson, so good for me...”

Hudson? You curse, screwing your eyes shut. He’s robbing you of your authority - you’re not his elder, superior, not his chief, not the Doc, not even his idol, three-time Piston champion, Hud. You’re you. And you’re his.  

Your hand works faster, feeling him harden. You get a sudden rush as he releases your wrist, pins and needles spiking the muscle and your shoulder aching. He kisses you again as he withdraws from your grasp, pulling you with him as he shifts, laying you almost on your front, hitching your knee up by your middle with such insistence and such care you feel _weak_ , emotional. He’s kneeling above you, looking down on the prize for his nerve, his skill and smiling that cocky smile. You daren’t taunt him, barely dare meet his eye, but you’re as far from frightened as it’s possible to be. 

 

 _Oh_ the ways he gives you what you asked for. Rushes into every vacancy you have with thin, strong fingers and that little cock. In the heat of this fantasy land, lost in its hazy mirage, surrounded by the summer smell of his skin and blinded by light bouncing off gold, he’s no boy, not only the perfect little mouthful. He’s full grown, fledged, exploding out and blasting across the line. A champion in the time it takes others to make a decent start at best. Like you’ve taught him.

Like _he’s learnt_. End of the day, everything you give only makes sense, only has value, when it’s absorbed and re-enacted by Lightning McQueen, laid out before you like a tribute to your past and a vision of the future you were denied by the world you were always on the edge of even when you were supposedly at it’s centre. So the student becomes the master.  

 

As you steadily come back down, chest heaving, head almost tipping off the bed where you’ve squirmed under his touch and what it _does_ to you like you’re half your age, you blink through salt water, sweat and fog to focus on his face. You wonder if his new persona will dissipate, whether he’ll crawl onto your chest, asking for approval with those puppy eyes, fit himself back into you and back into his place.  

What he does though, is narrow his eyes at you, smirk, and fold himself over to kiss you, long and slow, letting your legs settle back into the softness of the mattress, supporting your shattered knee all the way.  

“Well done, champ”, he says, the arrogant little prick. “Took that like a pro.”

You can hardly return his kiss for smiling, you try to hum your usual gruff but it’s lost in his laugh, making you join him, joy coursing through your veins.  

“S’no good - I can’t keep this up when m’desperate to check I haven’t broken you! Broken you worse, that is...”

“Cheeky son of a bitch”, you say, swatting his ass and gingerly sitting up, assessing the damage yourself.  

“I wanna rub your shoulder, should’ve pinned you on the other side, m’...”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry”, you snap, digging your fingers into the soreness he’s correctly anticipated. “It was wonderful. You’re wonderful. Worth it.”

He palms your jaw and presses his lips to yours, each of your breaths still deep and long, mingling between you. Then he crawls behind you, gently pushing you so you shift to accommodate him. You reach for the crumpled flat sheet and shake it smooth over the top of you both before settling backwards into his chest where he reclines on the pillows.

His fingers begin to work the flesh of your shoulder, his other arm curling around you and providing the perfect pillow in its crook, where you rest, letting your eyes drift shut, lulled by careful touch and kisses at your temple.

“Don’t ever wanna hurt you”, he says, soft, sleepy, and the image isn’t shattered, wasn’t a mirage.  

He’s your boy, he’s your man, and you’re his. You can lie, melt, absolve in his arms as well as take him in yours. Veteran and rookie both. 

In this moment - and God knows it might not last - those days of fear, of holding back and longing with no hope are gone. Gone. Gone. They’re the other side of the country and in another era. Somehow you’re still here, despite it all, wrapped in the care of a golden creature who you think might possibly love you and all the ways you’re broken while ever he can.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
